


Five for Fighting

by AlyKat



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Clint/Phil/Hockey OT3, It's not a hockey game till a fight breaks out, M/M, Zamboni of Destruction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-03-05
Packaged: 2017-12-04 09:10:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/709044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlyKat/pseuds/AlyKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hockey fights are not an uncommon occurrence and could, in fact, be argued to be the best part of the game. Only, they aren't exactly supposed to end in quite as much destruction as this one did...</p>
<p> </p>
<p>(Or the one where Phil's a hockey fan, Clint only watches for the fights, and the Kings teammates are not who or what they appear to be)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five for Fighting

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Phil or Clint or the Anaheim Ducks or the LA Kings. *Siiiiiiiiiighs!*

Note: This story was inspired by this picture of Ralkana's Tiny Comic Clint and Tiny Coulson riding her Ducks Zamboni. People wanted a story. I wrote a story.  Also, I would apologize to Kings fans for this but...well...I'm a Ducks fan too sooooooooo....*sorry! Not sorry!* xD

____________________________________________________________________

Phil’s eyes sparked and darted across the ice. He was leaning forward in his seat, elbows on his knees as he watched the black puck go flying into the Kings goal. With a whoop, he joined with the rest of the Ducks fans who celebrated their team taking the lead. Though he was originally from Chicago (and thus is a die-hard Blackhawks fan), he’d spent a few years living in Anaheim and thus had come to love the Ducks as well.

Next to him, Clint snorted and drew his hoodie up around his neck a bit more. “Ya know…the others would never believe this even if they saw it.” He grumbled, noting the way Phil was decked out in his black, orange and white jersey and blue jeans. Nope. No one would believe it.

Phil ignored him, settling instead to keep a keen eye on the face off and giving a twitch as the Kings took control and domineered on the ice. Clint rolled his eyes and, putting a hand on Phil’s knee, pushed himself to stand up. “I’m gonna go get a beer. Text me if there’s a fight. Only interesting part of this damn frozen hell of a sport anyways…” He muttered to himself as he shuffled his way down the row and out into the aisle.

Grey eyes barely even glanced in his husband’s direction when the man left. His heart was thrumming in his chest, the kind of rush he’d get during missions, a thrill of not knowing what would happen next. Would Fowler get the puck from Kopitar before he got any closer to the Ducks goal? How could Clint not enjoy hockey? It was one of the many things he’d never understand about the man.

Bryan Allen, number 55 for the Ducks, suddenly found himself sprawled out on the ice while a member of the Kings team sneered over him. It didn’t take more than a couple of seconds for Allen to get his footing under him again, throw down his gloves and stick and go at the opposing team member. Though, when Allen threw the first punch, square to the Kings' player’s jaw, Phil watched as the Ducks' defenseman drew his hand back. The man’s eyes were wide with confusion and he was cradling his hand like it were broken.

Suddenly, every perfectly honed instinct in him sprang to life and Phil was out of his seat and moving for the aisle before the next Ducks' player made a move for the Kings' player. Something wasn’t right. There was something about that opposing athlete that didn’t sit right with Phil. 

No sooner had his sneaker clad feet touched the concrete aisle than all hell broke loose. Suddenly the mystery King was shooting blue rays of _something_ out of his glove-clad hands. People screamed in horror as they fled from their seats and started clearing the benches. Two more members of the opposing team came out onto the ice, also shooting off blue beams of light and sending splinters of boards and plexiglass everywhere.

There was no time to pull out his phone and jab in Clint’s number and for not the first time, Phil was glad he was a documented government agent and was allowed to keep his personal revolver with him, tucked into the waistband of his jeans, just at the small of his back. Yeah, he never went anywhere unarmed and now he was glad he didn’t.

Without thinking, he hopped the gate separating seats from team benches and then again to get out onto the ice. Players and refs skated past in a blur and swerved to avoid crashing into the seemingly mad fan rushing the not-Kings teammates. God what a time to be without backup.

He had just about reached one of the decoy players when the sound of a large, lumbering motor roared to life. Not more than 20 seconds later, the doors that usually opened to let the Zamboni through burst open. No, not burst, _crashed_. As in the home team’s Zamboni itself tore through them and out onto the ice. Phil’s eyes went wide as he made a mad grasp at a handle and pulled himself up before he could get run over by the thing.

Above him, a whoop of excitement told him all he needed to know about who would be dumb enough to bring the massive piece of machinery out onto the crowded ice. The decoy players were oblivious to the fact they didn’t stand a chance against them. The Zamboni swerved and pushed on, corralling the fake players and chasing them down until the two agents had clustered the robots together. With a sickening _CRUNCH_ the Zamboni slammed the three “players” into and through the wall until they were sufficiently pinned against a few destroyed rows of seats. 

It took Clint a moment to figure out how to turn the ice cleaner off, but when he did the smile on his face was bright enough to light up half of Anaheim. Phil climbed back down to solid ground, his gun being placed back in his waistband and jersey tugged over top of it as he eyed Clint with a rather less than amused stare. The younger man was still grinning as he dropped to the ground next to him and surveyed the damage.

“Not too bad. Could have been worse, right?” He asked, his blue-green eyes sparkling with the same kind of excitement as Phil’s grey eyes had been earlier.

Phil remained quiet.

Still grinning, Clint’s hands slipped into his own jean’s pockets as he rocked back on his feet and played innocent. “Aw c’mon, Phil. It’s not a hockey game until there’s a fight and you gotta admit, this was a pretty epic one. If there were more fights like this, I might actually be happier to tag along with you more often.”

Phil’s right eye twitched once.

_Fini_.


End file.
